Cold Dish

by Craig Johnson

  “Couple ’a browns.” I stuck out a hand and pulled him up. “You want help putting her top up?”

  He looked past me to the hills across the valley. “I told you, it is not going to snow until after midnight.” I laid the fish on the counter by the sink and tossed the feather packet over toward the edge. He went to the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of milk and eggs he must have brought Sunday. He opened the carton and sniffed. “Do you still have the cornmeal?”

  I went over to the lower cabinet by the door and retrieved the cardboard container; the corner was already eaten through. I shrugged as I handed it to him. “Sorry.” He shook his head and cracked two eggs in a bowl, whisking them with a fork and adding some milk. He retrieved the frying pan from earlier in the week, checked it for mouse shit, turned on a front burner, and dropped a dollop of butter onto the slowly warming iron. He was fun to watch in the kitchen, his movements easy and smooth. It dawned on me that I should ask, “Anything I can do?”

  “No, I prefer my trout meuniere sans poopi.” He opened the tinfoil and admired the fish. “Beautiful. Where did you get them?”

  “What makes you think I didn’t catch them?”

  He didn’t honor this statement with a response but dumped out a bed of cornmeal in a dish and whisked the batter some more. Finishing this, he picked up his beer and started to take a sip. “I don’t suppose you have any peanut oil, parsley, or white wine?”

  “No, but I have a date tomorrow night.”

  He nodded, extended his arm, and poured part of his beer in the batter. He coated the fish, layered them in the cornmeal, then took a dish towel hanging from the drawer pull under the sink and tilted the handle of the frying pan. “Good.”

  “I need some help.”

  He watched the butter slide down the inside of the pan, added a little more, and rested it back on the burner. “Yes?”

  “Wine?”

  “Yes, wine is a good thing.”

  He didn’t see the sarcastic look I was giving him. “I need help picking one out.”

  He stared at the fish. “Dinner is in her home?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is she serving?”

  “I don’t know.” He slowly shook his head and took a sip of his beer; I was driving him to drink. I took a swig of my own and smiled, putting a good face on things. “She didn’t say.”

  He nodded, spreading his hands over the repast. “Red with beef, white with fish, or cheap beer with everything.” He leaned against the counter and braced his weight on one arm. “Is this to be a gift or to accompany dinner?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes. If it is to accompany dinner and it is white, then it must arrive chilled. If it is a gift, then it should not.”

  “What if I just don’t let her touch the bottle?”

  He nodded sagely. “Are you going to let her drink any?”

  “Oh, there is that.” He finished off the abbreviated beer and pulled the last one from the cardboard carrier. “I thought that was mine?”

  “You do not deserve it.” He opened it and took a swig before I could grab it away. “Then there is chicken.”

  “What about chicken?”

  “It can go either way.”

  “I’ve heard that about chickens.”

  He shook his head some more. “According to how it is prepared, it can go with either red or white. The whole idea of wine is to complement the meal. There are dry wines, moderately dry wines, dessert wines, aperitifs, sparkling wines, fortified wines, sherries, and ports . . .”

  “Mad Dog 20-20?” I was trying to be helpful.

  “There are an infinite number of both white and red wines: sauternes, chardonnays, pinot grigios, sauvignon blancs on the white side; bordeaux, burgundy, beaujolais, pinot noir, zinfandel, shiraz, merlot, syrah on the red side; never mind the vineyards themselves and the vintners. The wine of the year is a cabernet blend from the coastal region of Bolgheri. Antinori planted sixty percent to cabernet sauvignon, thirty-five percent to merlot, and five percent to cabernet franc. Then there are the appellations—St. Emilion, Margaux, Barolo, Barbera, and Chianti . . .”

  “Which ones come in cartons?”

  He nudged the empty carrier with the punt of his bottle. “How about a nice six-pack?”

  “I’m trying to change my image.”

  “Yes, I am trying to change it, too, but it does not seem to be working.” He took two of the fish and plopped them in their reflective image in melted butter; they sizzled and settled in as he returned the skillet to the stovetop. There was only room for two of the fillets at a time.

  “What about the chenin blanc she drinks at the bar?”

  “That is a good choice, along with a merlot. Just in case.”

  “You can hook me up?” A term I had picked up from Vic.

  “Yes.”

  I went ahead and ate while thinking about which subject I wanted to raise first as he prepared the next brace of trout. “Things really that slow at the bar?”

  He flipped his own dinner onto a plate and joined me at the counter. “Slow enough that I could get out of there this evening.”

  “Ever get tired of it?”

  “Every day, but then I look at my bank account and get over it.” He started on his dinner, and I let him eat for a while before I disturbed him with another question. I knew why he owned the bar, why he had gravitated to it. A sense of community. In a way, it was why we both did what we did. It was a way of looking after things, making sure everything was all right. “How is your fish?”

  I guess that meant he was ready to talk. “Great, thanks.”

  “Hey, they were your fish.”

  “Jim Ferguson’s, to be exact.” He was like that, always making an attempt to put everyone at ease. “Roger Russell come out to the bar a lot?”

  He thought about it. “No.”

  “That time the other night, the only time he’s been in?”

  “Yes.” His head rolled to one side, and he leaned back a little to keep his hair out of his food.

  “He’s on Omar’s short list of shooters.”

  He continued eating. “Who else is on the list?”

  I told him, and his face carried nothing. “Comment?”

  He grunted. “I am not sayin’ nothin’, shamus, till I talk to my mouthpiece.” We talked about the list for a while, his assumptions riding alongside mine. He didn’t spend enough time in town to make any real connections to the group. The only one he was interested in, for obvious reasons, was Artie Small Song. “He has worked for Omar.”

  “Yep, Omar said.”

  I watched the air fill his lungs and admired the way the weight of his chest didn’t force it out. I would never be built like Henry, capable of fight or flee. I was stuck with fight, but maybe I could be a little better at it. I could still feel the dull ache in my legs, and somewhere, down deep, I could feel a slight twinge at my stomach where most people had abdominal muscles. I readjusted my weight on the stool, and his eyes came up. “Artie was in the bar the day Cody Pritchard was shot.”

  Shit. “At the same time, before, after?”

  He nodded his head ever so slightly. “Before.”

  “How much before?”

  “About an hour before, left when Cody came in.”

  I sat my fork and knife down, as I rapidly lost my appetite. “You see which way he went?”

  “No.”

  We sat for a few moments more. “I need you to tell me what you’re thinking.” He got up and walked over to the window with his hands on his hips and looked out at the wind picking up and at his car with the top down. “You want me to help you put the top up on the T-bird?”

  He didn’t turn, and his voice sounded far away. “I told you, it is not going to snow until after midnight.” I waited for what seemed like a very long time. “You must understand that this puts me in a very uncomfortable position.”

  “How about I just call Billings or Hardin?”

  “
How about you just put your questions in a bottle and float them up the Powder River? Same result.” I waited some more, watching him breathe.

  “I’m perfectly willing to be turned down.”

  “Yes, you are, and that is one of many reasons I would do it.”

  “Think he’ll be cooperative?”

  “No. Not if he has any suspicions.” I didn’t like using Henry like this, but I convinced myself it was for a greater good. I was sure that the same thought was going through the back of the head at which I was looking.

  “Know him very well?”

  “Well enough.”

  I changed the subject in my usual subtle fashion. “Know of any Sharps out on the Rez?”

  There was no pause. “Lonnie Little Bird has one.”

  “What?”

  He half turned and smiled. “Lonnie has one.”

  I leaned back on my stool and crossed my arms. “You know, for a relatively rare firearm, the damn things are popping up all over the place.”

  His hands gravitated forward and into his pockets. “It was given to him by my great uncle, many years ago.”

  “Where’d he get it?”

  “From his father, who got it from a white man.”

  “Dead white man?”

  “Eventually.” He was still looking at me from the side of his face.

  “.45-70?”

  “Yes.” He looked back out the window, and I turned back to the counter. He could see me plain as day in the reflection of the glass. I was getting tired of looking at people’s reflections, and I was damn sure I was tired of them looking at me. “You are going to have to talk to Melissa Little Bird’s family. I will go with you.”

  “I’ve got something else to show you.” I picked up the envelope from DCI, tossing it to his side of the counter. He turned and looked at me. “Yet another reason I have to go onto the reservation.” He came back and sat down, opened the cardboard envelope, and pulled out the cellophane-wrapped feather. His eyes narrowed a little, but that was all.

  “Turkey.”

  “How the hell could you tell that so fast?”

  He laughed and looked down the length of the feather like the sight on a gun. “Bend.” He held it up straight between us. “Turkey feathers have a wicked bend to them, this one has been straightened, over-bent, then flipped over, and bent again.”

  “How?”

  “Household iron, light bulb, or steam, but steam is more difficult.”

  “Why bother?”

  “Eagle feathers are straight.” I thought about the feathers on Omar’s rifle scabbard; they were straight. “There’s also a deeper ridge on the spline. Can I open the plastic?”

  “Sure, there are no fingerprints.”

  He smiled again. “You are not going to use this against me later, are you?”

  “Nah, I was going to get your prints off the beer bottle.”

  He opened the cellophane by loosening the Scotch tape at one side. He was one of those guys who saved Christmas wrapping. He held the feather by the stem and ran his fingers up the side, the delicate quills tracing the movement between his index finger and thumb. He was looking at something, but I didn’t know what it was. “Some artisans use Minwax to get the right color. It is a much richer tint than the turkey’s. Mahogany furniture stain, with a sponge. Do you mind if I ask where it came from?”

  “Cody Pritchard.”

  His eyes stayed with mine. “On the body?”

  “Yep, we thought it was just a leftover from one of the local critters, but . . .”

  “Yes.” He reconsidered the feather. “Yes . . .”

  “He didn’t have anything like this on him at the bar, did he?”

  “No.” He turned the feather in his fingers, much like I had all day. “This is a good one. There are only a few individuals who could have made this.”

  I nodded. “Can you get me a list?”

  “I can check them myself.” He sighed and sat the feather down between us.

  “You think someone is counting coup?”

  He shrugged. “I am not sure if you understand the spirit of the thing. When we used to fight battles against other tribes and the army, no deed was more honored than counting coup. It means to touch an armed enemy who is still in full possession of his powers. The touch is not a blow and only serves to show the enemy your prowess—an act considered greater than any other, a display of absolute courage, conveying a sense of playfulness.”

  “Well, that lets this out.” I watched him. He studied the feather again, his eyes running the length, back and forth. “For many reasons, this does not make sense.”

  I took the last swig of my beer and sat the bottle aside. “Like?”

  “It is the owl feathers that are the sign of death, the messengers from the other world. The eagle feather is a sign of life, attached to all the activities of the living: making rain, planting and harvesting crops, success in fishing, protecting homes, and curing illness. The feather is considered the breath of life, processing the power and spirit of the bird of which it was once a living part.”

  I sometimes forgot about how spiritual Henry was. I had been raised as a Methodist where the highest sacrament was the bake sale. “The eagle is big medicine. It symbolizes life, boldness, freedom, and the unity of all. In the Nations, the eagle feather must be blessed. The eagle feather must be pure, so that the recipient does not catch the evil that might be in the unblessed feather. A medicine man must bless the feather, and then it can be passed on to someone else.”

  It didn’t seem like we were getting anywhere. “That doesn’t make sense in our particular situation.”

  He took the plates away and sat them in the sink, then leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “That is not a real eagle feather.”

  “So, what does that mean?”

  “I am not sure. It could be an Indian sending mixed signals, or . . . ?”

  “Or what?”

  “A white attempting to make it look like an Indian.” I thought of that. “Or back to square one; not all Indians would be able to tell the difference between this feather and a real one.” He shrugged.

  “You’re a lot of help.”

  “This is going to be tougher than the wine. It means we have to go ask some questions.” He looked around at the makings of dinner. “Do you want me to clean up?”

  “I think I can handle it. You’re leaving?”

  “I have an early morning tomorrow.”

  A slow but steady panic was starting to set in, and the pain in my legs began to grow. “We’re not going running again, are we?”

  He didn’t say anything, just turned and walked out the door.

  I went over to the window and watched him start up the Thunderbird and carefully back it around my truck. The two taillights bobbed and weaved down the gravel driveway and faded into the night like red turbines. It still looked nice out, so I took the remainder of his beer onto the new porch and leaned against one of the supporting timbers. They were rough-cuts, and the splinters felt like fur being brushed the wrong way. I lifted up the bottle and took a swig. It was almost full, and I smiled. Small gifts.

  I looked up at all the little pinpricks in the heavens and thought about Vic’s handwriting, the tiny holes in the paper. I thought about my daughter for a while and Vonnie, but then my mind settled on Melissa Little Bird. I was going to have to see Melissa again. I hadn’t really had any interaction with the young woman since the trial, only seeing her once at the reenactment at Little Big Horn and that was more than a year ago.

  She had been sitting in her aunt Arbutus’s car and was waiting to leave one of the roped-off grass parking lots that caught the overflow of the yearly event. It was the end of June, and the waves of heat and the reflection of the afternoon sun made it hard to see, but I saw her. I had raised my head and laughed at something Henry had said, trudging along in the late-afternoon sun, thinking about the individuals who had died there, wondering if their ghosts hovered near. They m
ust have because, when we came up over the rise, my eyes came to rest on Melissa Little Bird, and everything happened in slow motion.

  She was wearing the Cheyenne jingle-bob dance headgear, with a band of beaded sunbursts and feathers. It was different than any I had ever seen before; it had three loops of beads that draped below Melissa’s eyes. Trade beads flowed down past her ears to the mussel-shell choker at her throat and onto the elk-bone breastplate. There was also a cardboard number, printed in red, hanging from around her neck, and it read 383. Instantly, I wondered at the number of hours that her family must have taken to prepare her for the dance competitions. I hoped she had won. Her head turned from the direction in which the car was then slowly traveling. Her eyes were soft, yet animated, but they froze when they saw me. Her hand crept up against the glass, flattening against the surface with the pressure she applied. Her lips parted, just enough for me to glimpse the perfect white of her teeth, and she was gone.

  Somewhere in all this musing, I noticed a fat little snowflake drift across my field of vision and settle against one of the concrete blocks and disappear. There were others, now that I noticed, gently floating through the cooling night air. Scientists say there is a noise that snowflakes make when they land on water, like the wail of a coyote; the sound reaches a climax and then fades away, all in about one ten-thousandth of a second. They noticed it when they were using sonar to track migrating salmon in Alaska. The snowflakes made so much noise that it masked the signals of the fish, and the experiment had to be aborted. The flake floats on the water, and there is little sound below; but, as soon as it starts to melt, water is sucked up by capillary action. They figure that air bubbles are released from the snowflake or are trapped by the rising water. Each of these bubbles vibrates as it struggles to reach equilibrium with its surroundings and sends out sound waves, a cry so small and so high that it’s undetectable by the human ear.

  I looked up at the few remaining stars. It seemed that an awful lot of the voices in my life were so small and high as to be undetectable by the human ear.

  I pulled out my pocket watch and read, 12:01.

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